#anders fanfic

Anders x Hawke Words: 368 Plot: Anders laying awake at night thinking of Hawke, realising he loves her. A/N: “I have lay awake every night for three years aching for you” or however Anders says it is the best line in DA:2. If you don’t believe me I’ll fite you. I have had requests for Anders before that I forgot to write; this is by way of an apology.

Nights in Kirkwall were claustrophobic. 

The air was thick; hot air rising from the sandstone walls. Beggars and refugees lined endless streets, cramming the doorways in the hope of shelter from templar forces. The clinic was no exception; in fact, Anders barely slept at all under the scratchy cloth that lined his cot. When he finally would dream: the Deep Roads would stretch out before him, miles of stone and dirt between the tips of his fingers and the starlight.

When he would finally wake in the morning, sweat would paste his blonde waves to his forehead. His limbs would ache, his head pounding from dehydration. And Justice was always there, always weaving through his thoughts; wisps of smoke through the trees of his consciousness.

You must sleep, Anders. You must sleep.

As if he didn’t know. As if he didn’t wish he could. So, he began trying to focus as he lay awake at night. Grounding himself in realities to help wind him down. At first, his thoughts would waver to his duties, his memories…the Circle, his patients. And then he noticed his thoughts stagnating on more specific moments; on more specific people.

Hawke.

Her image burned through his soul; a wildfire he felt deep within him. It started in his throat, his mouth dry as he bit his lip. His head would feel warm, his ears burning hot against his pillow. His heart hammering in his chest. His toes curled against his sheets as he pictured her laying beside him, her hands cupping his chin as she sang him to sleep. 

Justice would protest. He always protested. Reminding Anders in those dark and stuffy nights that they had a purpose; he didn’t need her to tell him where he was going. 

Anders would swallow. If he didn’t need her; why did his bones ache with the distance between them? Why did his lungs grip tightly in his chest when he felt her presence behind him? Why, of all things, would he spend these years watching the door to his clinic at midnight, waiting for her to stride in and take his aching from him?

The bar opens at four.

Anders gets there at two.

The place is quiet then—chairs still upside down on the tables, the smell of bleach and citrus cleaner lingering in the air. The neon beer signs are off, the windows pale with afternoon light.

He likes it like this.

Predictable.

Ordered.

He unties the rag from the sink and wipes down the bar, starting at the far left and working his way right. Every surface gets two passes. Sometimes three. The wood gleams dark and smooth under the dim lights.

A tic jerks his shoulder.

He mutters under his breath and starts polishing the glasses.

Behind the bar, tucked beneath the counter, there’s a small wooden box. Inside it are things Anders finds during closing shifts.

Bottle caps.

A guitar pick.

A cheap silver ring someone forgot.

He doesn’t know why he keeps them.

He just does.

The back door creaks open.

Anders freezes mid-polish.

“You’re here early again.”

Ryker’s voice is warm and rough with sleep.

Anders sets the glass down a little too quickly.

“You’re late,” he says.

Ryker glances at the clock.

“It’s two-thirty.”

“You were supposed to help unload the kegs.”

Ryker grins like that’s funny.

His hair is still messy, hoodie hanging loose over his shoulders. He looks like he just rolled out of bed and accidentally wandered into a bar.

Which, knowing Ryker, might actually be what happened.

“You did it already, didn’t you?” Ryker asks.

Anders doesn’t answer.

Ryker laughs.

“God, you’re intense.”

Anders turns back to the glasses, scrubbing harder than necessary.

“Someone has to do the work.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Ryker hops over the counter instead of walking around it.

Anders hates when he does that.

Not because it’s annoying.

Because Ryker lands too close.

Their shoulders brush.

Anders’s brain short-circuits.

Ryker doesn’t notice.

He never notices.

“Hey,” Ryker says suddenly, leaning his elbows on the counter. “Tierney’s coming in tonight.”

Anders’s stomach drops.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. She said she might bring some friends too.”

“Great.”

Ryker tilts his head.

“You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be.”

“You look like someone just kicked your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

Ryker snorts.

“Fair.”

The bar opens an hour later.

By six, it’s loud.

Music thumps from the speakers. Glasses clink. Someone laughs too loudly near the dartboard.

Anders moves through it all like a machine.

Pour. Slide. Pour. Wipe. Pour again.

His hands are steady even when his mind isn’t.

Tierney shows up around seven.

Ryker lights up immediately when he sees her.

Anders pretends he doesn’t notice.

But he does.

He notices everything.

The way Ryker leans closer when she talks.

The way she laughs at things that aren’t that funny.

The way Ryker keeps glancing over his shoulder toward the bar like he wants Anders to see something.

Anders focuses on the drinks.

Someone orders a whiskey sour.

Then three beers.

Then another round of shots.

The noise blurs together.

His chest feels tight.

Not panic.

Just the familiar ache he’s learned to ignore.

Near midnight, the crowd finally starts thinning out.

Tierney leaves with a wave.

Ryker watches her go.

Anders wipes the same spot on the counter for the fourth time.

“You’re going to sand a hole through the bar,” Ryker says.

Anders shrugs.

“You could help.”

Ryker grabs a rag and starts wiping the opposite end.

They work in silence for a while.

The neon lights hum softly overhead.

Then Ryker slides a glass toward him.

Anders frowns.

“What’s this.”

“Drink it.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re off in ten minutes.”

Anders eyes the glass suspiciously.

It’s amber colored, with a twist of orange peel floating at the top.

“What is it.”

“Something I made up.”

Ryker looks almost nervous.

Which is strange.

Ryker is never nervous.

Anders takes a cautious sip.

It’s smoky and sweet and warm all at once.

His eyebrows lift slightly.

“…it’s good.”

Ryker grins like he just won something.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t get used to compliments.”

“Too late.”

Ryker bumps his shoulder lightly.

The contact is brief.

But Anders still feels it minutes later.

When they finally lock up for the night, Ryker flicks off the neon signs one by one.

The bar falls quiet again.

Just the two of them.

“Hey,” Ryker says.

“What.”

“You don’t have to come in two hours early tomorrow.”

Anders shrugs.

“I like the quiet.”

Ryker studies him for a second.

Then he nods.

“Alright.”

But the next afternoon when Anders unlocks the bar door—

Ryker is already inside.

Two glasses on the counter.

The coffee shop opens at six.

Anders opens it at five-thirty.

No one asked him to. No one even knows he does it. But he likes the quiet before the world starts existing.

The espresso machine hums as it warms up. The grinder rattles softly. Outside, the sky is still dark, the windows fogged from the cold.

Anders ties his apron strings twice.

Then a third time.

Then once more, because the knot didn’t feel right.

His fingers twitch slightly after. A tic he tries to ignore.

The bell over the door hasn’t rung yet. It won’t for a while.

Good.

He wipes down the counter again even though he already did it ten minutes ago.

Behind the register there’s a small jar where he keeps things he finds.

A button.

A paperclip shaped like a star.

A coin someone dropped and never came back for.

He rolls the coin between his fingers now, studying the tiny scratches on the metal.

“Morning, Anders.”

He startles so hard the coin slips from his hand.

Ryker stands in the doorway of the employee room, hair still damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows.

He always looks like that.

Like he woke up and accidentally became attractive.

Anders looks away immediately.

“Morning,” he mutters.

Ryker stretches, yawning. “You’ve been here since five again, haven’t you?”

“No.”

Ryker stares at him.

Anders sighs. “…maybe.”

“You’re insane.”

“Someone has to make sure the place doesn’t burn down.”

Ryker laughs.

The sound is warm. Easy. It spreads through Anders’s chest in a way he hates.

Because Ryker laughs like that with everyone.

Customers start trickling in around six-thirty.

Anders works the espresso machine while Ryker takes orders. It’s easier that way. Less talking.

“Two caramel lattes,” Ryker says, sliding the ticket across.

Anders makes them automatically.

Steam. Milk. Espresso.

His movements are precise, practiced.

Ryker leans on the counter while he works.

“You know,” he says, “you don’t have to glare at every customer like they personally offended you.”

“I’m not glaring.”

“You absolutely are.”

Anders flicks the milk pitcher under the steam wand harder than necessary.

“Maybe they deserve it.”

Ryker grins.

“Yeah? What did the woman ordering a muffin do?”

“She said ‘expresso.’”

Ryker bursts out laughing.

Anders pretends not to smile.

The morning rush comes and goes like a storm.

By nine, the shop quiets again.

Tierney sits in the corner booth with her usual tea, reading something on her phone. She waves when Ryker brings her a refill.

They talk for a while.

Anders tells himself he isn’t watching.

He’s wiping the counter.

Then organizing the sugar packets.

Then wiping the counter again.

His chest feels tight.

Stupid.

He knows Ryker isn’t his.

Ryker isn’t anyone’s.

Still.

When Ryker comes back behind the counter, Anders pushes a mug toward him.

“Here.”

Ryker blinks.

“What’s this?”

“Just drink it.”

Ryker takes a sip.

His eyebrows lift.

“…is this the burnt sugar one?”

Anders shrugs.

“I was experimenting.”

It took three tries.

And forty minutes.

Anders watched Ryker drink it the whole time.

Ryker leans against the counter, smiling slightly.

“It’s good.”

Something warm spreads through Anders’s chest.

Dangerous.

Soft.

He looks down at the counter so Ryker doesn’t see it.

“You’re welcome.”

There’s a pause.

Then Ryker bumps his shoulder lightly against Anders’s.

“Hey.”

“What.”

“You don’t have to get here at five-thirty tomorrow.”

Anders shrugs.

“I like the quiet.”

Ryker studies him for a second.

Then he nods.

“Alright.”

But the next morning when Anders unlocks the shop door at five-thirty—